Sixty seconds
by MissSlothy
Summary: 'Close your eyes, focus on what you see. Count to sixty. Then draw.' Danny's in hospital after being shot while in isolation. Steve's struggling to deal with what happened. Related to Season 8. Features Artist!Steve. Could be read as pre-slash depending on how you see things.


"He nearly died, Lou!"

"I know—"

"He nearly died. I want to know who that guy was. I want every crooked, sonofa—"

"Steve."

"Call Duke. Tell him I need every spare man he's got. We'll start at—"

"Not tonight, Steve."

"Lou."

"No." Lou's jaw is clenched with shared anger and frustration. But his tone says he's not going to budge.

Steve takes a gulp of air in. Then he takes another one. Running his palms over his newly-shaven hair he starts pacing. Eyes are watching him, he can feel them follow him as he moves. The police officer stationed outside Danny's room, the duty nurse on the front desk: they're watching him in silence, sympathy written on their faces.

"Renee's cooking dinner. Come eat with us."

Steve turns, paces back. Lou's watching him too, his eyes narrowed in concern. For a second, just for a split second, he considers saying yes. He's exhausted, his mind working overtime. He's in no fit state to be making decisions.

Then he catches sight of the police officer keeping guard over Danny and his anger flares again.

It ignites his heart rate, he feels like he's running at top speed, even though he's standing still. He wants to know why that bastard did this. Most of all he _needs_ to know he was working alone.

Lou's heartfelt sigh pulls him out of his thoughts. "Danny's not gonna be happy when he finds out I left you here—"

"I'm good, man. I'm good." Steve forces himself to quirk his lips upwards in a ghost of a smile. Grover's frown tells Steve his friend's not buying it. But his expression also tells him that Grover knows he's going to lose this argument.

Grover's shoulders sink. "Don't make me regret this, man. I don't want Duke calling at 2am to tell me you're out there locked and loaded, terrorising every perp in Oahu."

Steve smiles despite himself. His friends know him well. "I'll stay here," he promises, his eyes flicking to Danny's room. _I'm not leaving, Danny. I'm gonna protect him like I should've done today._

"Fine," Grover mutters under his breath. It's obvious he's struggling to convince himself.

Steve wuffs in surprise as Grover suddenly pulls him into a hug. He holds on, grabbing onto the anchor in the storm. When Grover lets go, he pulls him back again, squeezing hard. Without Grover they wouldn't have got Danny out of there. Things could have been so different right now. Telling Grace would have been hard enough – it would have damn near killed him - but Charlie… Charlie's still just a kid…

"I know, man. I know."

Grover's voice is low, gentle. It almost tips him over the edge. Steve blinks back the hot tears that are pooling behind his eyelids. By the time he pulls away he's collected himself. Grover doesn't say anything, just plants a large hand on his shoulder.

"I'm gonna let you stay," Grover says after a beat, breaking the heavy silence that's fallen over them. "I'm gonna let you stay but I'll be back for you in the morning. And you'd better be right where I've left you."

" _Right_ here? Not over there or in Danny's—" Steve stops as Grover raises an eyebrow. "Right here. Understood."

Grover shrugs his jacket on, pats his pockets for his keys and phone. "Renee's gonna fix us breakfast," he throws back, heading for the exit. "You don't want to mess with Renee."

Steve shakes his head as Grover disappears from sight. Grover's right, he won't argue with Renee. He's got absolute respect for the woman, for what she's been through to support the man she loves. That takes guts, real commitment.

 _Maybe one day he'll be as lucky to find someone like that_.

Nausea cuts through the underlying anger. Panic is bubbling in his chest. Loss is something he's used to, that he's learnt to live with. Nobody died here today. He's got no reason to feel like this.

 _Danny's gonna be okay._

"Commander? Let me get you a seat, huh?"

Steve goes where the nurse leads him. They've already explained he won't be able to sit with Danny. They don't want him to be disturbed. Steve pulls round the chair he's given so that he's got a clear view to Danny's room. The police officer shuffles under Steve's scrutiny but doesn't move from his watchful stance.

Steve rests his elbows on his knees, head hanging low. Adrenaline's still thrumming through his blood stream. Guarding Danny is _his_ duty, it's his job to keep him safe. His fingers start twitching, tapping out an impatient beat on the chair.

A quick glance at his watch tells him it's barely past 20:00 hours. It's going to be a very long night. He checks out the corridor a couple more times, almost disappointed when no-one appears. Even the nurse has disappeared off somewhere. It's just him and the police officer.

The silence is oppressive. It's clashing with the smouldering anger, stoking it even more.

With a grunt of frustration he gets to his feet and starts prowling. It's not until he's been up and down the corridor several times that he notices someone's left him his holdall from the isolation ward. He pounces on it, riffling through the contents, looking for the distraction he desperately needs.

There's no laptop in it; the doctors' had been very strict about what they could have in isolation. Jerry's got all their phones wired (he's pretty sure he signed off on that…or maybe not) so accessing HPD records on that is out too. There's a book at the bottom of the holdall but he's too tired to be interested in _'Neurological Marketing – how to convince people to buy your food'_. There's a couple of changes of clothes, some protein bars and basic toiletries. There're no playing cards or chess set, nothing that will occupy his mind.

It's when he's putting everything back in the holdall he notices the blank note pad and pencils at the bottom. He vaguely remembers putting them there; he'd taken the bag with him on his last extended Reserve Duty. But he hasn't drawn anything for ever. His brain's just been too busy since Kono and Chin left. Since the plane crash, since the radiation poisoning.

Since _everything._

Steve weighs the pencil in his hand, twists it between his fingers as he thinks. Sitting back down he exhales slowly, runs his fingers over the blank page. Getting out of his head is what he needs right now. His eyes slide over to the police officer, slide back again, his brain still warring with the need to be in that room.

Puffing his cheeks out he lets out a long, tired breath. _Focus,_ he thinks, remembering what his Mom had taught him all those years ago. _Close your eyes, focus on what you see. Count to sixty. Then draw._

H50H50H50H50

The first time he'd tried drawing – drawing properly, 'not the baby stuff like Mare does' as he'd reported to his Dad that evening – he'd been eight years old.

He can remember it clearly because he'd had measles. Grounded for two weeks he'd been bored and grouchy. Mary had been four years old, taking all their Mom's attention – or at least that's how it appeared in his world.

He'd been a pain in the ass back then.

His Mom had insisted on an afternoon nap for him. Half an hour later he'd had different ideas. Padding down the stairs he'd yelled to her for a drink. Five seconds later he'd tried again. Yelling louder hadn't got him what he wanted either.

In fact his Mom hadn't appeared at all.

Eventually he'd found her in the yard, sitting in a chair by the water's edge. Head down, her back to him, she'd been concentrating. Something about her posture had registered in his eight-year old brain; he'd stopped shouting. He'd crept up, hands tucked behind his back, trying to see over her shoulder.

As a child all he'd been focused on was getting comfort and attention. As an adult he can remember the way she'd scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand as she turned to look at him. Her face was flushed, her eyes red-rimmed.

She'd lifted him up on the chair beside her. The drawing pad and pencil she'd been holding rested on her lap. On the front page there was a drawing, no colour, just pencil lines and grey smudges. Face scrunched, bottom lip pouting, he'd been unimpressed with her efforts. The picture looked like the traditional Hawaiian huts he'd seen on a School research trip. Years later he'd see the same huts in Cambodia.

She'd looked wistful when he'd told her the picture was boring (he really was being a pain in the ass). Pulling him closer, her fingers stroking through his hair, she'd explained to him about how she liked to close her eyes and remember nice things. Then she'd open them again and draw what she'd seen.

His eight-year old self hadn't been impressed with that idea. The word 'why' had come up several times. In the end though he'd tried it – _sixty seconds, Stevie. Don't cheat_ – and she'd smiled at his drawing of the bike he'd got for his last birthday.

He'd still thought it was a stupid idea back then. Later that evening he'd got a red crayon from Mary's bedroom and finished the drawing because his bike was red, _not_ white. But later on, as he'd got older, it had become _their_ thing.

Him and his mom.

H50H50H50

The sound of Mary crying isn't what wakes him. He's been awake, staring at his bedroom ceiling, for a while. It's still dark outside which suggests its really late. But there's light creeping under his bedroom door – his Dad's still up.

Straining his ears Steve listens for the sound of his Dad's footsteps on the stairs, the reassuring squeak of the floorboard. Deep down he knows it isn't going to happen but the feeling of disappointment and anger is overwhelming. It hits him like a blow to the gut.

It's been the same every night since his Mom died. He's not stupid – he's noticed the empty whiskey bottles in the trash.

Carefully he gets out of bed, navigating his way out of his room. He steps over the holdall he'd packed the night before. He's only allowed to take a few things with him to the Academy. In the half darkness, dotted along the shelves on the wall, he can see all the things he's got to leave behind.

Swallowing hard Steve drags his eyes away from them and lets himself out of his bedroom. Out in the hallway he can still hear Mary crying. She's sobbing, deep, heart-wrenching, lonely sobs. There's no way their Dad can't hear her.

"It's okay," he says as he slides onto her bed, beside her. They both know it's not but it's what he's said every night. It's familiar, something to hold on to. They're going to look after each other, that's what he keeps telling her. Except now that's been taken away from them too.

She cuddles up against him, burrowing into his chest. Her tears slowly soak through his pajama top as she keeps repeating that she wants her Mom back.

"I want her back too, Mare." So, so much.

Eventually she stops crying. Sniffing, she pulls away. The look of desolation in her eyes makes him pull her back again, stroking her damp hair away from her face. "It's gonna be alright," he whispers but he knows that's a lie and he hates himself. After tomorrow they won't be together anymore. Phone calls and letters won't be the same.

Closing his eyes against Mare's misery – _their_ misery – he leans against the headboard and just breathes. The bed linen still smells of the laundry detergent his Mom used. If he tries really hard he can pretend she's still sitting downstairs with Dad, laughing at some old comedy on TV.

It's not a conscious decision to grab a scrap of paper and a colouring pen off the floor and start drawing. People's faces are something he's terrible at drawing anyway. But as he whispers into the dark, telling Mary what he's drawing, he's back there with his Mom by the water's edge, sitting in her lap drawing a picture of his bike.

It's his tears, not Mare's, that make the paper wet. Determined, he keeps on talking, hoping she can't hear just how scared he is.

H50h50h50h50

"Detective Williams is awake and he's asking for you."

With a start Steve comes back to the present. Looking down, he's still holding the pad and pencil in his hands. The front page is still blank. Blinking against the harsh light in the corridor he realises the nurse is standing in front of him.

"Commander? You can see him for a few minutes if you'd like."

The police officer is still standing outside Danny's room but now he's got a smile on his face. He nods as Steve follows the nurse inside, pulling the door closed behind them. Steve stops on the threshold, his heart in his throat.

Danny's watching him from the bed. Well, not exactly watching, it's more of befuddled stare but compared to earlier in the day, it's nothing short of a miracle.

"Wha's up?"

Steve forces himself to move, nodding at the nurse as she leaves. "Wha's up?" he mimics, feeling his lips quirk upwards with relief. "Well, this time it's you in the hospital, buddy. But everything's fine, okay. Don't worry."

"Do't worry?" Apparently Danny's ignoring Steve's advice. His face scrunches up. "Tha' guy…shot me…Junior…Tani…"

"They're okay. Everyone's okay." _Apart from you, Danny. You nearly died._ "Take it easy, go back to sleep," Steve encourages, pulling up a chair next to the bed.

Danny's started shifting, his fingers are picking at the blanket. If his hands starts moving it's gonna hurt like hell. "I need you to stay still, okay? The doctors, they've fixed you up. You don't want to upset them off by undoing everything."

Danny blinks back at him, unfocused, his pupils wide. Steve doubts he's understood a word that's been said. Something must have got through though: gradually he stops fidgeting, just the tips of his fingers rubbing away at the blanket.

Steve covers both of Danny's hands with one of his own, curling his fingers protectively over the top. Danny's hands feel warm under his, not cold like they had in the isolation ward. He's still pale but not deathly white, not fighting for every fucking breath. Relief sweeps through Steve, taking the last of his energy with it. Hollow, exhausted, he slumps forward in his chair.

Danny's hand twitches. When Steve looks up Danny's watching him again, a worried crease between his eyebrows. Steve tries for a smile, knows he's failing badly. Then he tastes salt on his lips, realises what Danny is staring at.

There are tears rolling down his cheeks.

H50H50H50H50

The Boeing C130 Globemaster has a capacity for 54 troops with sidewall seats and cargo. Steve knows this because he's memorised the specs. Right now the C130 he's sitting in is only half full but it still feels like 50 plus pairs of eyes are watching him.

It's four days since he made it back from North Korea. A week since he left Freddie behind. The mission was top secret but there are people who saw him leave with Freddie. They saw him come back on his own.

Nobody's going to ask him about it. They all know that's not how it works. But scuttlebutt still exists, especially in a war zone. Everyone's looking out for each other, watching each other's backs.

Steve keeps his head down, doesn't make eye contact with the men seated on either side of him. It's noisy as hell so talking's difficult anyway. They're not due to land for another three hours though. With his head as fucked up as it is, it feels like the journey's never going to end.

Several of the men and women around him have pulled their jackets over their heads, blocking out the overhead lights, hoping to get some sleep. Steve knows that isn't going to happen for him. He hasn't slept properly since he got back. Every time he closes his eyes all he can see is Freddie, grinning as he shows him his tattoo.

A member of the loading crew appears with bottles of water. Accepting one isn't optional: staying hydrated and fueled is an operational requirement. Steve takes a bottle, tightens his grip as his hand starts shaking. He stares at it, mesmerised by the movement. It doesn't feel real, it's like he's detached from himself.

"Wanna hand there?"

The voice has come from Steve's left. Reluctantly he turns his head, makes eye contact with the man sitting next to him. The face that stares back at him is battered. He's got one black eye and a red, raw line running down one cheek. The rest of his face is peppered with scabbed over patches of skin.

 _Blast injuries,_ Steve thinks as he considers the offer. It looks like he's not the only one on this flight being sent to Landstuhl for evaluation. With a sharp nod he acknowledges the other man. After a beat he hands over the bottle, nodding again when it's handed back without its lid.

They don't talk again until the flight is nearly over. His fellow passenger is leaning back in his seat, his head tipped back at an awkward angle, his legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes aren't closed but his body language is screaming _keep away._

Steve's got no problem with that. There's no fucking way he's sharing either. His hearts sinks at the knowledge of what awaits him at Landstuhl. They're going to want to know _everything_

Needing a distraction he's been trying to draw something – anything – to stop his brain churning. But everything he's tried looks like shit. The problem is he can't shut his eyes, like his Mom taught him. So he's just been trying to draw random things.

They're half an hour out from touch down, the loading crew readying everyone to land, when the man next to him stirs again. With a bone cracking stretch he pushes himself upright then cricks his neck sideways, his gaze falling on the drawing pad in Steve's lap. One eyebrow arches upwards, an obvious question in his eyes.

Steve looks down at his last drawing, at the chairs by the edge of the sea. The actual layout of the yard isn't a clear memory but he's added the bits he can remember; the lush green vegetation, the flowers, the waves. He hasn't added his Mom but in his mind he can see her sitting there.

' _HAWAI'I',_ he scribbles underneath, in block letters.

For the first time in a long time he feels homesick.

H50H50H50H50

"What you drawing?"

Steve looks up, allows himself a genuine smile. Danny's been slipping in and out of consciousness all night. But over the last few hours there's been a real improvement. He's lucid, holding conversations. He's gained back control of his lips and tongue. Arguing will follow at some point but for now Steve's just happy to sit with Danny and bide his time.

Danny knows about his drawings. The first time Danny had seen them had been after been after the Governor had been murdered by Wo Fat, after he'd spent time locked up in solitary confinement. Steve's first response had been to hide them, to flick the pad closed. Danny had put his hand in the way to stop him. Catching Steve's gaze he'd held it. Then, with a little shake of his head, he'd flicked the pad open again.

They rarely talk about the drawings. Steve's under no illusions: he's not a great artist. He's not after validation either. It's just that there's something he likes about the feeling of the pencil on the paper, it grounds him when nothing else can. The simplicity of using just a pencil appeals to him. It requires technical precision as well.

As an adult, he understands why it appeals to his Mom too. There's been more than one occasion in the field where the skill of being able to recall something and sketch it has been useful. Under fire, when the noise is deafening, a visual aid can save lives.

"What is that? Is that supposed to be a cloud?"

Steve's not sure what drugs they're giving Danny but whatever they are, Danny's not feeling a thing. He can tell this by the way Danny's leaning over, stabbing at the drawing pad.

"Whoa! Whoa! Don't do that." When Danny carries on regardless, Steve rolls his eyes and gives him the pad. "Fine. Take it." He can feel his cheeks colouring as Danny brings the pad up to his face, peering closely at what he's drawn. "I've changed my mind. Give it back—"

"—No, no." Danny turns the pad sideways. Slowly understanding dawns on his face. "That's a chef's hat. So that guy wearing it is—"

"—you. Yeah." Steve stuffs his hands in his pocket, stares at the opposite wall.

Danny leans over again to tap him on the knee. "Don't do that, babe."

The gentle insistent in Danny's voice makes him reply. "I'm fine."

"You're an idiot," Danny shoots back but there's no heat in the words. In fact it's the opposite.

"Thanks." Steve meets his eyes, feels his heart flip. Danny's alive and he's talking shit and he should feel good about it but there's still a knot of panic in his chest.

Danny clears his throat, waves the pad in front of Steve's nose. "I'm flattered, babe. I really am. But I look like The Swedish Chef."

Steve runs the words through his brain. "Is that a cooking programme?"

"Is that a…didn't you watch The Muppets when you were a kid? You know, with the talking frog and the cute pig and the dancing chickens…"

Steve doesn't hear the rest: he's busy on his phone, checking out The Swedish Chef on YouTube.

"Okay," he concedes with a chuckle as he hits play again, "you might be right." It's not just the hair – he might have got carried away there. And he hadn't meant to give Danny a moustache – he's smudged the pencil lines with the side of his hand.

What he's looking at are the other more _physical_ characteristics that Danny and The Swedish Chef share.

Danny's expression turns suspicious. "Give me that." It morphs into mock-outrage as he hits 'play' and The Swedish Chef starts talking at top speed, his hands flying in the air.

Steve slumps back in his chair, grinning. The knot of panic is dissipating. In the back of his mind the spectre of the man who shot Danny is still lurking. But right now Danny's building up to a rant of epic proportions.

Right now he fucking loves his life.

The End.


End file.
